


Exactly Like Love

by girl_on_the_moon



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Break Up, Connor Needs A Hug, Connor Needs Oliver, Insight, M/M, and a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_on_the_moon/pseuds/girl_on_the_moon
Summary: Set during season 3 - a couple of weeks after the break up.Connor had grown up with addiction. He knows the many forms of addiction, he knows them all. He has seen what the sweet lure of alcohol and pot can do, the false sense of power money gives, the need to look young and beautiful on the outside when the inside is broken and jaded. Addiction is your friend and your worst enemy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Addiction!
> 
> Thanx go out to Schrehn and Nebu for getting me over a bad case of writers block, for the cheerleading and handholding and also for the wonderful beta. Thank you, girls, sooo so much. <3

Connor knows about addiction. 

ABCDE. 

It is characterized by a) the inability to consistently abstain, b) impairment in behavioral control, c) craving, d) diminished recognition of significant problems with one’s behaviors and interpersonal relationships, and e) a dysfunctional emotional response.

Connor had grown up with addiction. He knows the many forms of addiction, he knows them all. He has seen what the sweet lure of alcohol and pot can do, the false sense of power money gives, the need to look young and beautiful on the outside when the inside is broken and jaded. Addiction is your friend and your worst enemy.

Connor was always thankful for not giving in to it.

He thought the reason why no addiction could ever lure him in was his cold and calculating mind, his intelligence, his experiences. He never had the urge to forget or to feel better. He never gave in to peer pressure and he never ever did not think about the side effects or consequences of what he was about to do. To be honest he could barely understand how people could just ignore the ugly face of addiction.

So when he sits on a bar stool tonight for the 13th night in a row, wallowing in self pity and ordering his 10th or so drink (inability to consistently abstain), he thinks about his arrogance while keeping the booze flooding his system. He knows he should stop drinking. The hangover is not worth it and neither is the brain damage. But he also knows how it all will go down: He’ll pick up a guy, fuck his brains out or maybe let the guy blow him while Connor’s mind will fuck him equally by showing him pictures of Oliver during the whole thing.

That’s not healthy, Connor knows that. It’s not good for him in any way. And the most important thing: It doesn’t help. It gives him a headache in the morning, a guilty conscience and it does. not. even. help.

“Slow down.” the barkeeper says with an apologetic smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Fuck off!” The response comes less aggressive and more slurring than Connor would like (impairment in behavioral control). The barkeeper pushes a bowl with peanuts in Connor’s general direction and Connor is happy to take some.

“Girl problems?” the barkeeper asks sympathetically while mixing a pink cocktail with a lot of fruits in it. It’s probably for the guy and girl sitting in the corner. Their laughter sometimes disturbs Connor’s brooding and while he is happy for them (not really, but well) he wishes they’d just go find a nice hotel room and get on with it.

It’s an addiction of another kind, Connor finds himself thinking. First dates. The nervousness in the beginning, the waves of affection that flood your system, the excitement when you find the one topic that leads to conversations that last for hours - it all feels good and makes you feel good. And when you touch and kiss and fuck your date later that night it’s even better. Connor feels a yearning, creeping up inside him, to touch Oliver's lips with his fingertips and feel them tremble.

“Guy problems,” the barkeeper says with confidence. Connor is impressed. But also annoyed. He just wants to drink and enjoy the peace and quiet and have a good fuck sometimes later tonight.

“Yeah,” he hears himself saying.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Connor pushes the empty glass away, motions the barkeeper to get him another drink.

“I am a good listener.”

“I don’t need someone who listens to me whine, but someone who serves me a drink.” Connor needs this drink. Right now. That’s what he came here for (craving). He’s had the urgent need to call Oliver all day and that has to go away.

The barkeeper sighs. “I’m sorry, my friend, but you have had enough for today.”

Connor looks up and for the first time ever looks at the barkeeper, really looks at him. The guy is in his late 20s, Connor guesses, about Connors height and a little overweight. He has a nice face with bright mischievous eyes, no beard. His shoulder long hair is tucked back behind his ears.

Connor wonders why he never saw him. Not really. To be honest, he is not a people person lately. He can barely stand Michaela’s presence and it’s even worse with Asher. He has to put on a smile, but sometimes it’s hard not to slip. And sometimes he does. But that’s not a problem, is it? The drinking does not help, but it puts a veil over everything and in Connor’s mind that is improvement enough (diminished recognition of significant problems with one’s behaviors and interpersonal relationships).

“I can decide when I’ve had enough.”

“So…”The barkeeper gets a glass. Finally. “He broke up with you… what… 3 weeks ago? A month ago?”

Connor is still not in the mood to talk about it. He looks at the couple. She has her hand on his arm now and Connor is pretty sure there is action going on underneath that table. Connor pities them. It’ll all go downhill soon enough.

“27 days,” he mutters. “How did you know?”

The barkeeper just shrugs.

The first few days hadn’t been so bad. Connor had work and booze and sex and enjoyed his freedom. He had talked himself into a mindset of not caring, of pure joy and constantly seeking distraction. And it worked for a bit. But the illusion fell apart as soon as he realised that it did not feel good. He did not feel good, not at all. There was a big black hole inside him and he couldn’t make it go away or even ignore it.

“You love him, do you?”

Connor doesn’t even consider answering this stupid question. There is a glass standing in front of him, filled to the top and Connor is eternally grateful. He takes a gulp and it tastes funny at first, but then …

“Water!” he says through clenched teeth and it takes everything not to shout.

“Yes,” the barkeeper says, seemingly unaware of Connor’s anger. Connor wants to crawl over to him and slam his head into the glass cabinet behind him. Connor will leave. Now. 

He’s about to grab his car keys, but the keys are gone. There is a moment when Connor doubts himself. Maybe he never put them on the counter, maybe he lost them or maybe he got here via cab. He knows what a brain on alcohol can do to you, so false memories wouldn’t be that much of a stretch. Then he remembers and can’t wrap his head around it.

“Give me the keys.”

The bartender smiles a little smile which probably is supposed to be soothing. All it does to Connor is make him furious. He is livid now and the hot anger is boiling up in him. He just wants the guy to stop smiling and leave him the fuck alone. Everyone should just leave him alone, fuck this barkeeper and fuck Laurel and Annalise. Fuck Asher. Fuck Michaela. And FUCK. OLIVER. Fuck them all and their stupid little faces pitying him and making him feel like a burden. Like a project. Or a nutcase.

What comes next is a blur and Connor will later say he can’t remember a thing. He comes to, when the glass is empty and the barkeeper is soaking wet and looks surprised at him. Not angry, but surprised. Who would have known. Connor hears Michaela’s voice calling his name, surprised and angry and like talking to a child and Connor feels like a child and stomps his foot and shouts “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” to everyone of them. Even the couple. Especially the couple. Because they deserve it, running straight into their misery. The guy looks a little like Oliver, so Connor can’t really help it (dysfunctional emotional response).

When he’s lying on Michaela’s couch later that night, head spinning and in constant fear of another wave of nausea, he finally admits it to himself: He’s on the road to hell and he can’t do anything about it. And maybe it won’t even be the booze. If it’s not, it’s probably sex. Or work. Or maybe gambling.

Connor realises, addiction is not something you can rationalise. It’s not something you can decide to do or not to do. Sometimes it’s your only friend and even if it is also your worst enemy, it’s hard to let go. It turns your world upside down and makes you feel a kind of contentment you thought you couldn’t feel anymore. And then it lets you down and everything is going to hell.

Much like love, Connor thinks while drifting off. Exactly like love.


End file.
